


In Somnis Veritas

by Cân Cennau (cancennau)



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:19:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancennau/pseuds/C%C3%A2n%20Cennau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the episode "The Big Four", Hastings and Poirot have unfinished business to discuss. Not too spoilery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Somnis Veritas

It was exceptionally surreal to see Poirot again after all these years. Except for being a little stouter and grayer, he seemed not to have changed at all, even greeting me in the old Continental style as we always had. Japp and Ms Lemon looked on fondly, and didn’t even bat an eyelid when my arm didn’t fall from Poirot’s waist after our greeting. We spoke briefly about old times, about the case, about how nice it was for old friends to be back together. But they soon left, each quoting a different fictitious reason for needing to leave when in fact they wished to leave me and Poirot some privacy. With promises not to fall out of touch and to write often, they vanished, leaving us in awkward silence and the weight of unfinished business upon our shoulders.

It had been many years since we had seen each other in the flesh. Our last parting had not been neat - it was awkward and upsettting to think about it even now. Poirot and I had indulged in a love affair, spanning several years. We loved each other dearly, but Poirot knew I had desires that he would not be able to fulfil - namely that of having children. I was never unhappy with our arrangement - children were just something other people had, that I wouldn’t get. It pained me to think about it, but I was far too happy with Poirot to consider leaving.

But Poirot could see it hurt not to have children of my own. And so he arranged it all, the girl, the romance, the marriage... I had objected to it at first, completely opposed to leaving Poirot’s side. But Poirot had insisted, and Dulcie was kind and pretty, and there was no denying I was smitten with her. We had married soon after meeting, and then moved to Argentina. I had returned periodically to see my old flame, only visiting to catch up, sometimes for a rendezvous. It was an arrangement that worked. That is, until Dulcie fell pregnant. 

I had gone straight back to Poirot and begged to be taken back. I can see now that I was in the throes of panic, but back then I thought I wasn’t ready to be a father. Lord knows I wanted children, but I completely doubted my ability as a father. I had no father figure in my life - my biological father had swum so deep into the depths of a whisky bottle that there was no chance of him ever coming out again. Poirot had argued with me, and tried to convince me to go back, to be the father I never had to my children. There had been fighting, shouting, tears, kisses, sensations, and then silence. 

We had spoken of the occasion, and come to a decision. Poirot insisted I could not keep travelling once the children were born, and it would not be prudent to continue our affair. As much as I fought against him, he stood firm. After hours for sparring over the subject, I conceded to his decision and left him to live full time in Argentina. I wrote periodically, but I never stood on English soil again. Until the arrival of that fateful letter. 

“You are quiet, mon capitan.” Poirot said, breaking into my internal monologue. 

“It’s like a dream.” I admitted quietly. “I keep expecting to wake up at any moment, or for my hand to fall straight through you. I keep thinking that in a few moments, I’ll wake up, and you’ll be- still be-”

Unable to stop myself, I turned fully and took him in my arms, breaking off my train of thought and embracing him tightly. I felt his arms tighten painfully around my shoulders as we held each other, further proof that he was there, actually there, holding me close. I was shaking, holding back the damn of grief that hung behind my eyes. I leant back, and looked into his eyes, and saw that they mirrored what I was feeling - pain, longing, grief, lust, and an unidentifiable emotion hidden in the shadows. We were so close I could’ve pressed my lips against his and kissed him like we used to. The temptation to do so was great, but Poirot could see what was going through my mind and placed a hand upon my chest, halting my movement.

“You know we cannot.” he whispered to me, the tone of his voice betraying every word that he said.

“I don’t care,” I replied desperately. “I don’t care that we shouldn’t. Not now.”

“Arthur-” I took his hand from my chest, and pressed my lips to his forehead, his voice muffling as his face hit my chest. He sighed in annoyance, but I smiled as he turned his hand in mine and loosely grasped my fingers. 

“If you don’t want this-” Poirot’s hand encasing mine in a crushing grip was a telling sign of the answer, but I continued. “-tell me now. You can choose to forget this after if you so desire. But don’t try and ward me off by saying what I shouldn’t do. Because right now I don’t care.”

“But-” 

“Please.” I whispered, cupping his cheek. He looked up at me, eyes twinkling with flecks of amber and fragments of restrained longing. “I thought you were dead.”

I do not know if it was what I said  or how I said it, but I felt his resolve crumble like an autumn leaf after saying those words. He closed his eyes, swore in French, before pulling me down by the lapels. Our breaths intermingled with each other for mere moments, brandy and whisky scents pleating into a rich and aromatic musk, before our lips came crashing together in a desperate song of heartache and lust.

Not even at the height of our youth had Poirot and I kissed with such desperation. It was all emotion and lips and tongue and teeth, and there were hands on my face and in my hair that had crept up from shoulders and my own arms were wrapped securely around his waist, creating a rising heat between us. The tears I had not let fall earlier were now falling thick and fast down my cheeks as we kissed, but Poirot did not stop to ask what was wrong, instead smoothing them away with the pads of his thumbs. 

We broke apart, breathing heavily, staring at each other in wonder. I felt drained, light headed, weak kneed, but also content, and I could see Poirot felt similarly. He left my embrace, and for a brief moment of horror I thought he was leaving, but he took my hand and lead me to the sofa, where we settled in each others arms again, slowly brushing lips and noses.

“I still can’t believe you’re here.” I whispered in a quiet interlude. I felt Poirot’s mouth curve into a grin, from where it was doing all sorts of wonderful things to my ear lobe.

“You can be assured that I am here, mon ami.” he replied quietly,leaning back and showing me the honesty in his eyes. I smiled back, leaning forward to steal a quick kiss from his lips, drawing a quiet laugh from the other man.

“But I must ask, Hastings-” Here, Poirot looked at me seriously. “-where were you when our dear friend Japp received my telegram?”

“You sent Japp a telegram?”

“Mais oui, I needed him to apprehend the criminal. I had mentioned to him that he should take you with him if you were available, but you were not there.”

“Oh.” I felt my cheeks colour in embarrassment as I thought where I probably was. “I’m afraid I had left the flat before it arrived.”

“You did?”

“Yes. I wanted to complete the work that you started before you- well…”

“Oh Hastings.” Poirot laughed, before kissing me tenderly on the mouth. “Mon brave, you have not changed one bit.” 

“Yes, well.” I smiled despite my annoyance, instead pulling him closer and burying my face in his neck. 

“I didn’t get far.” I continued, voice now muffled. “I went to the library and looked at all the old newspapers for clues, but nothing. After that, I went and sat by your grave, talked for a while… Then the vicar came to the grave and said you’d made a miraculous recovery from death.” A sudden thought occurred to me then and there, and I voiced it to Poirot for confirmation; 

“The grave - we will be getting rid of that, won’t we?”

“Of course.” he confirmed.

“Good. I shan’t like to see it again anytime soon either.” I said emphatically. Poirot simply pulled me closer and squeezed my shoulders tightly. We both knew that at some point that gravestone would make a reappearance, but right now that was the last thing I wished to think about.

“When I was apart from you during this case, I thought of you often.” Poirot quietly confided in me. “I thought of your feelings being at the funeral, and it pained me greatly to think you would be in such grief over my loss. Often I wished that I could come back, to see my carefree Hastings once more, but that was not to be so until I had completed my work.

“Poirot…” Unable to think of anything to respond to that, I pressed my lips to his once more and kissed him searchingly. He responded in kind, and we spent a few minutes confirming our feelings and comforting each other.

“I still do want to come back. If you’ll have me, that is.” I murmured to him, settling my head on his shoulder. Poirot sighed, and began stroking my hair, twisting the curls around his broad fingers like he used to.

“You know the answer to that, mon ami,” he replied quietly. “But you have a family, a wife. It would not be wise for you to leave them.”

“Not any more.” I remarked sadly. “The boys have left for the army. Grace is out in India. Dulcie... died a few years ago. It’s only me and Judith now, and even Judith’s looking to leave.”

“I am sorry to hear that, mon brave.” Poirot murmured soothingly, brushing my forehead with the lightest of kisses. I tilted my head back so he could kiss me properly, before settling back down. The slow disappearance of my family no longer held the pain it had done once before. Even Dulcie’s death was simply a dull ache now. Time had worn away the sharpness of those memories, until they were just something of the past, another freeze frame in the battered tapestry that was my life.

“We’re all getting old, Poirot.” I continued quietly. “There’s no denying it. Japp’s talking about retirement, Ms Lemon’s cat collection is growing by the day... I don’t want the spend the rest of my days anywhere but by your side.”

Poirot sighed in that way when he was tired of fighting with me over old wounds, and pressed his lips to my forehead as a peace gesture.

“We shall see, mon chou.” he murmured. “We will see.”


End file.
